Crystal Cats
by doc daniels
Summary: in the style of GONZO . . . .
1. That's My Shoe

** "That's my shoe"**

Over several hundred miles ago Edwards and I were just high school boys with the outline of a vision of a dream of a nightmare. On an early fall afternoon in my junior year, notes were scattered in my art portfolio hinting about knowledge, wisdom, and abstractions of the female form. Edwards was playing the role of a student aid to our overly friendly and often with child high school art teacher. He was more along the lines of the Pavlovian aid that blushed on command. Those rosy cheeks were the pride and joy of the beginning afternoon in the high school routine. We both immigrated away from a math course based on the premise of preparing us for college, however, the course was mostly aimed at keeping the seedy element at bay and manageable in one place while the affects of massive carbohydrate loaded meals brought lethargy on adolescent minds.

No doubt cosmic forces were aligning from those chance encounters and notes that later surfaced in the spring before my graduation from junior college. Then a totally unaware Engineering student with writing tendencies placed on a back shelf, I found myself in a reunion of sorts with Edwards. Over the dry wit of the girl next to me who never fully bought into the whole brazier culture, Edwards and myself found new expressways to decadence. Skipping college classes became a way of life for both of us in those days. Warm sun and dried fairways gave more than ample excuse for guzzling beers and practicing our slice. There were also the chemical components of playing outside of college. It was a time of experimentation, and finding the most obscure path of travel and what in the blazes would we care anyway; it was only junior college. The thirteenth grade of our formal education lay open as a fertile playground for any one with enough sense to show up the class before any exam. . . .

These were the back lighting to every conversation we had amassed by becoming roommates at college. The decision that would take us over and up through the frozen tundra of the West, over and up across the fertile lands of the South, and over and up into every tittie-bar, no matter how drunken, cracked-out, or pregnant the dancers. When I entered the dorm room on the fourth floor and saw Edwards conversing with my roommate, Wetback, with the Weezer ball cap turned backwards; there was a glint of naive mischief alight around his stubbly goatee. A mental note, if you ever arrive at your place and Edwards is waiting for you make a mental note to call your neighbors to watch any animals or plants that may need attention. Especially if he's carrying that ratty-old off white gym bag, that gym bag is a portent of nights that run into weeks and the only sounds after the party ends are "Stairway to Heaven" leaking out of four inch speakers and the dull thud of leather that can only be described in terms of, "Do you hear that? That's my shoe."


	2. We've Been Robbed

8

crystal cats

"**We've been robbed"**

It was raining. The heavy, thick rain drops of a cold March afternoon splattered against pavement, concrete, and chipped stones. They were late, however, not a definite lateness in the business since of the word. Not even late like a college girl who forgets to practice the adequate amount of protection on a Thursday evening after dime drafts and three-dollar-pitchers rob her lean sensibilities of the mild deterrents necessary for carefree existence. No, we were feeling that specific lateness that accompanies the initial on-set of a bizarre journey. The lateness associated with an irrational desire to hurry to the next place like a cat's midday schizophrenia.

There was also the lateness coupling with a general sense of fear. A fear that since March was fast on us, we needed to finalize the nesting behavior. We needed a place to stay. In two months, the semester would run its course with a final barrage of celebrations and then we were out on our ass. These thoughts filtered in and out of our minds walking in a cold March rain. Only these thoughts screwed our heads on tightly despite the increasing fury of the chemicals. Things were now a question of survival.

"Which one are we signing on," the rain pouring off my baseball cap as I turned my gaze toward the apartment building. It was cold and I could sense in my marrow that there must be wolves about.

"The place the cop owns," answered Edwards picking up the pace in the sloshing of puddles. "Over and up," he added with a quick point in the general direction of campus, as if I should know exactly where over and up really were. At this point, over and up were foreign concepts I was not ready to debate. Yet in some strange subliminal way, over and up constituted all the rational sense in the world. What more do we need than over and up, I thought while increasing my pace. Breaths escaping my lungs turning immediately to a dense fog that obscured my sight and made the usually minor walk to Edwards's apartment something deliberate, slow, and intensely visceral. Over and up through the gravel parking lot, over and up through the barrage of bulky raindrops, and always over and up down the stairs and into some semblance of warmth.

Walking in the basement apartment was a holy sanctuary; a haven offering refuge against the rain and cold winds of March. Giving us an opportunity for some bizarre drying ritual that would bring us closer to level and an opportunity for the first response to my question to finally collide with that one functioning brain cell. I had heard the word cop. Not in the normal intonation of the word, which bothered me. That is what initially threw me the curve and I was left in the batter's box gawking at the beauty of the pitch. "What's this nonsense about a cop?"

"Over and up," came the response from Edwards while shaking a baby blue towel and staring over towards the kitchen.

"I got the over and up part of the conversation. I was asking about the cop. What's this cop nonsense?"

"You wanna beer, man," he asked in some denial of my question ever being raised. Walking down the short corridor and opening the Maytag, "Yeah, a cop owns the place. Red Stripe?"

"A cop . ? Yeah . .," this thought was going to take more time to settle with that lazy brain cell swirling at full speed in Daytona. No mental traction, at the word cop my brain was now Teflon and thoughts kept sliding in and out. Skidding right past my eyes. "Let's get those beers open and figure this out."

"Alright. Over and up," he led the way down the back hallway to the dart room. It might do us some good. Lobbing pointed projectiles away from each other just might clarify the whole cop idea. There in the shelter of the rainy mist our senses congealed against the background music of Weezer while darts flew silently into cork.

"What's the score," asked Edwards with a long sip on the warming Michelob in his grasp. From the tone of his question I gathered the question was not towards the game of Cricket but to my general state at the moment.

"Well, if it's gonna be a cop then we might as well do it right. No sense on pulling our punches," I rationalized the coming encounter in terms of a gamble that would surely end in our favor. What threat could that pig possibly produce that we were not prepared against? It was settled in the casual addition of, "Over and up."

"That's the college try. Let's get a change of music on in here. Over and up," he smiled back through a face unnaturally bright on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. How does the _Hurricane_ go?

"Hey, let's put on some Dylan," I called as Edwards walked slowly to the CD unit. "How about some _Desire_? That just might kick start our moods," the words flowing out of my mouth like some dense fog that was settling into words, a dense fog in Technicolor; floating in every unimaginable ROY G. BIV color combination. Missing from that brief dialogue and pouring out almost instinctually next came the final words, the cherry on the root beer float, "Over and up."

The sounds of guitar and harmonica wailed in, circling and spiraling around the dart room. Flying in some bomber formation over the sofas, buzzing above our heads, and hovering coiled above the speakers. The weird was inevitably setting in and the Red Stripes and Michelobs were emptying in mechanical manner. As the reassuring buzz of the harmonica slowly faded out on the album I wandered back into my thoughts of the past. Remembering slowly, as the thoughts shot by in frame-by-frame, how long ago this weird acquaintance was born?

Edwards looked over after completing his final throw smiling, "What's the dilly-o?"

"We need to buy some cowboy hats," I thought at the same time speaking into the saturated air. "That'll give the pig some idea the kinda rugged-outdoorsmen-highway mentality he's gonna deal with."

Edwards left out a controlled laugh that calmed my nerves temporarily. "What you need," he spoke while rummaging under the sofa, "is a couple dozen puffs of this." Out from under the sofa came an inspiration.

"You pick it and pack it. I'll go get some water," speaking methodically as I rose. The room was saturated and so were we, however, there was always enough space left over to do things correctly. "And some more beers," I added as I skipped down the hallway. Euphoria, like a blanket of fog crept slowly over the landscape and brought the smile back across my face that Dylan replaced momentarily with concern for cowboy hats and harmonica dynamics. The faucet churned out a steady stream filling the pitcher as I maneuvered around the refrigerator door. My sense of euphoria quickly dropped when my gaze settled on an empty shelf. Are we out of beer? Is it at all possible that the beer was truly gone? I began searching the crisper, freezer, and refrigerator door. It was a fact carved on tablets Moses hoisted down from the mountain peaks. We were beyond the looking glass and no amount of time keeping rabbits could help us unless they also knew the exact position of the missing beer.

Toting the pitcher down the hall and into the dart room I looked Edwards in the eye and could only barely breathe the words, "We've been robbed." From the lag time in our conversation I wondered exactly what part of those words were giving him trouble. It could only be the idea of the robbery. I clarified with an addition of, "The beer is gone."

"Well," was the reply that returned from his mouth. Edwards was gifted with complicating a situation already uneasy with his amazing command of one-word phrases. Maybe some modern day Robin Hood would bring more alcoholic beverages but that was only foolish daydreaming.

"Over and up," I asked as if that might clarify things for him. His head began to move up and down in some slow motion nod that swept the multi-colored fog in circles around him. "However, over and up only after this," I added while holding the water pitcher. "There's no need for us to go ape shit over this. We can find the beer and when we do," I let the thought trail off for him to fill in the blank since I wasn't quite sure what would happen when we did find the beer thieves. The saturated air of the dart room grew dense as we finished off the last remains of our beers.

The calm of the tubes emptying and refilling began to bring our moods back to the euphoria stolen as quickly as the beers. It was time to commence the second phase of the plan. The over and up plan was going to commence operation on its most vital mission of the day. We were preparing ourselves for the circumstances of venturing forth in the mist and rain.

"We can walk over and up," I said in a vain attempt. I knew Edwards decided before the beer robbery was mentioned . . . we were driving. The American way, I suppose.

"Why would we walk in this weather? I'll drive," preceded the look of determination followed by another look. This new look wiped away the meager amount of faith Edwards exuded in the declaration of our motorized departure. "Where are my keys?"


	3. No Big Drug Parties

"**No big drug parties."**

The rain kept falling outside the tiny rectangular window. Edwards and I managed to find a sparsely occupied corner of the local pizza shop where we could order some quarts of Killian's Irish Red and sip against the beating rain and wind. The pace was beginning to pick up from a combination of the constant overcast humidity that drizzled and the background mixture of Radiohead playing softly over the neon jukebox by the entrance. Time was closing in on the meeting with this particular cop and that only increased the level of FEAR and DREAD nagging at the edges of my consciousness.

"How much time are we looking at," poured the question slowly from my mouth? Hovering for seconds above the laminated table and then disappearing into the thickening cloud of cigarette smoke enveloping us. A conversation was forming from two distinct dialogues of total miscommunication.

Edwards peered over the amber filling the plastic quart cup, "Almost an hour or so. It's only up the street and we're driving." This statement's addition, as if it could wipe away the DREAD still nibbling around my thoughts, seemed another attempt to bring back a relaxed mood. The mood that grew even fiercer, feeding off the speeding chemicals like some bizarre mental rodent burrowed deeply into my skull. DREAD took hold and dug its sharp teeth more ravenously into the thoughts spiraling out of control. How long was the muggy drizzle intent on over-casting our feelings? A few hours until the extent of this rain delay was examined for glimpses, fragments, or phrases of truth.

"Hey, guys. What are you doing out in this weather," came a distinctly provocative and purely feminine voice over the fading sound of Radiohead and the muffled conversations. I looked up quickly, startled by the quick movement of Edwards to his feet, to blast both eyes fully on the radiant glow of two lips looped upward in a huge smile.

"Good to see you," piped Edwards with a mammoth hug that brought our newest arrival a few inches off the floor. Oh, the word company seems such a strange word for a dismal day filled by saturating rain and lamenting DREAD. However, I could sense that Amy's arrival was a portent. A break in the haze that was developing between us, an adhesive with long brown hair and a pair of sparkling eyes, a universal solvent.

"You need a beer," I asked while waiting for the extra long hug performance to come to a close? "Quart of Killian's alright?"

"Yeah. That'd be great, Harley. I could use a couple," she smiled over Edwards's shoulder. Making my way to the beer spout, I could sense a definite change in the collective mood. I felt a foreign feeling spread across my face. Was that a smile on a day filled with beer robberies and cop encounters? A definite change was coming on quick and the congealing colors swirling about in the background were as much help in discerning the nature of it all as the foamy quarts themselves. Bumping between Greeks and through laughter-soaked conversations, I finally arrived with the majority of the three drinks intact. Amy hopped up with more energy than necessary, bounding off of the seat like a coiled wire no sooner than I placed the beers on the table. "It's so good to see you guys," she sang full of true happiness at seeing the remnants of what were formerly two normal men.

We were slowly gaining attention around the bar. I could see the long glances in our direction at the extremely affectionate gathering we were facilitating amidst the smoke and water puddles. "So, what are you guys up to," she asked still brimming.

"Well, Harley and I are signing on a lease in about fifteen minutes and then we're wide open," went Edwards chuckling. The addition of Amy's infectious attitude was evident in the color returning to both cheeks. A color I neglected to notice most of the day.

"Great. Party central for next year I suppose," she added with a huge smile.

"That's right," I piped in jovially. "The safe port in the storm for the summer and then some. Well, what are you getting into, Amy?"

"Hopefully mischief. Some of my suite mates are gonna meet me out soon . . . It's Thursday and all."

I'd almost forgotten that imminently important piece of information. It was Thursday. The holiest day of the week in the college bar circuit. "We need to put a pre-Pub party together, Edwards."

"Giddy-up. I like the way you're thinking. A power hour and then some before it's bar time. Are you in, Amy?"

"I'm game," she smiled. "I'll tell the girls and get in touch with Red."

"Outstanding. This calls for a toast," I perked up. "To party."

And in unison we all added, "'Til you puke."

"Well, guys. Do you need anything for the party?"

"Harley, we got everything?"

"I believe you know the answer to that question, bubba."

"Yeah, we'll get the keg after our little meeting. Which reminds me. Damn, Amy, we gotta get going."

"Oh, guys. But I just got here."

"Listen. We'll make up for it tonight."

"You guys promise?"

"Promise," we smiled in unison. Draining the remains of the quarts in question and picking up the next round.

"You just bring your sexy self and the good times. We'll supply the party favors," Edwards giggled out.

Walking towards the door, Edwards turned and added with a smile, "Over and up." The rain outside was persistent. The concrete sidewalk responded to each step like an over-gorged sponge squirting tiny streams. We piled into the 300 and Edwards set us barreling down the small alley. Shooting past a stop sign on a vacant street and a group of pledges doing a calisthenics routine in the front yard of the Delta Chi house. At these speeds, at such close quarters, holding on to both quarts was an intense action of direct will power.

"What did I tell you, man? Over and up," Edwards emphasized the final portion with a downshift. "You know what I like in a girl?"

"You," I laughed. "And besides that, alcohol's a good start."

"That's what I love about these chicks," he shouted.

Two blocks of back alley driving can turn an already bent mind on an axis. Spin it around in directions never imagined by even the most devout theoretical mathematician. "Are we late," I gasped when Edwards brought the 300 to rest in a small gravel parking lot behind the apartment complex.

"Early. Too early from what it seems." A hush fell over the passenger compartment. Were we too early, I wondered, however, we had plenty of beer at the moment. Was this yet another cruel, sick, and twisted joke from the combination of the chemicals and the total lack of directional sense exhibited by my companion. In either case, time slowly flowed around my body. Clinging to my BDU top, slipping into each of its pockets, and, finally, swimming back on a silent breeze. Then it happened. The state police cruiser pulled in down the alley and parked directly behind the 300.

"That's it. The acid is definitely taking a left turn for the worse," I shouted in a garbled tone of gibberish. "The cop's called the cops on us."

Edwards turned his head slowly to fix that dumb-founded gaze squarely on my forehead. "That's the landlord, man. Put the beer in the cup holder. Over and up."

The landlord, I thought. I remembered something about meeting a cop and another scrap about needing an apartment for the summer, however, the two didn't quite add to any conclusive sum. I pulled the Tech ball cap tightly down on my head and exited the 300. The gusting wind and the constant rain battered my cheeks as I followed Edwards to the police cruiser. If this isn't the most unholy of warnings, I thought, as the passenger side window of the cruiser came down.

"Hey, boys, jump in the back. I'm in a bit of a hurry," sang the tenor voice through the window. Not exactly a voice that strikes terror into the hearts of the criminally deranged, I supposed. The rear door creaked open as Edwards hopped in, like getting into the back of a police cruiser under your own power was the most natural of human tendencies. So, feeling the push of the moment and the over-whelming burden of the quarts fueling my garbled brain, I followed and slammed the door shut.

"Hey, you don't mind? It's just I'm on my way to start a shift and this was the easiest way. All right then, here's a copy of the agreement for both of you. While you look them over I just want to run over the short of the agreement." We both took a copy of the ten pages stapled together in the upper left-hand corner.

"Alright, the short of it then. I understand you want the apartment for the summer, too. That'll cost you each an additional fifty bucks. The rent is either due each month or you can pay by semester. The summer rent is due before you can move anything in," he melodiously chanted like he'd written this song years ago and was performing it on his final farewell concert tour. "I'd say the first of June is the earliest you can start moving anything. No dogs and no big drug parties."

Edwards and I turned to look at each other, grins widening on both of our faces and blooming into full-fledged smiles. With a hearty laugh the cop added, "It's not to say you can have small drug parties but I always call first before I come over."


	4. Welcome to My World

"Welcome to my world." 

"Can you fucking believe that guy, Harley? He practically let us sign a license to kill," sprung the words between Edwards and his muffled laughter.

Unburdening the assorted bottles of Jim Beam, Smirnoff, and Monte Alban's in the apartment was a true relief but we still couldn't shake the events with our new landlord. "What kind of a cop is this guy? All he did was talk about how hot the girls living upstairs were."

"I figure he's some piece of work. Wants to be a real American hero underneath that semblance of law and order. Shit. Where's Benny?"

Edwards looked over his shoulder in the kitchen to the weight room. From behind the door we could hear the bass tonal grunting of a heavy workout. "I figure he's in there. Benny!"

I joined in the chorus of shouts for Benny and, after a few seconds of the chant, the door to the weight room swung open. Out walked Benny in full workout regalia swinging a towel over his left shoulder. He eyed us up and down with a menacing look that sent the FEAR shuddering up my spine, "What the hell do you freaks want?"

Edwards and I looked at each other and then back at Benny with a burst of laughter. "Keg, Benny," I was able to gasp between gulps of air and laughter. "There's a party on the front burner. Can you give us a hand?"

Benny eyed Edwards and I again and began to lose the menacing look, "Well, that depends. I see liquor. You tell me there's a keg but we're missing a couple vital ingredients."

"It's a keg of Red Hook and the rest of the details are being sorted out as we speak," smiled Edwards. "Amy's bringing some friends."

"I love it when a plan comes together," shouted Benny with a raise of his arms. "Let's get to it."

The three of us managed to haul the keg through the drying rain puddles and hardening mud. Over and up down the stairs and into the apartment, over and up down the hallway to the dart room. The keg was strategically positioned towards the entrance near the throwing line for the dartboard so the participants wouldn't need bother wandering the apartment with projectiles. There is nothing as conducive to mayhem as hurled projectiles and alcohol; however, we figured it was a risk worth taking.

Benny looked at me and said with a concerned gleam, "Well, I helped you guys. Are you gonna help me out?"

"Benny, my boy, you're in luck. Go get your shower and the festivities will begin."

Edwards smiled, "You know we've only got about an hour and change before the crew shows up and that crazy Irish bastard will get here shortly. So, you better be ready for a Power Hour in about ten minutes."

"Alright," Benny laughed. "I'm on it."

"Maybe later, jolly green," I added while ducking his flying fist.

"I'll tend to you later, Harley. You little, fucking leprechaun," gurgled the words from Benny's lips as another thought slammed against the front of his head and the outstretched arms slipped down to his side. "On a schedule right now. Edwards, take care of my light work."

With a shrug of his shoulders, Edwards watched Benny leave the room and began eyeing the work laid out in front of us. Screens and tubes that would need serious and deliberate cleaning in the minutes remaining before the righteous college blast could begin. And the thought that, at any moment, Irish Red would arrive to distract us gave a grim determination to the already tedious work. We both continued lighting and scraping, scrubbing and rinsing, until some semblance of order returned to the room.

After what seemed like hours of meticulous labor, the faint jingle of metal became audible. I looked up at Edwards who was finishing taking a pipe cleaner through a hose and said, "Bubba, did you hear the door?"

Edwards looked up in a squint and eyed the empty air between us. It was as if the sound could recreate itself out of the thin air before him if it actually did occur previously. He shook his head to clear that mystic vision and said, "No, but I hear the jingle."

While his words still hung in the air, the beaded curtain parted and a black leather jacket swung from between the strands while landing securely on the sofa next to me. With a pouncing leap, Irish Red was next to the jacket and lighting a Kool. "Well, boys. I see you're up to the same old shit. Where's the beer?"

"Don't you know smoking will kill you," smiled Edwards from across the room.

"So will an elephant when it sits in your lap," choked Red as he dragged heavily on the menthol. "Let's cut the pot and kettle shit for now and get to the matter at hand."

"You already passed the keg, brother. You better get your priorities straight," I grinned at Red. "Fucking Irish bastard."

"What do you red-neck bastards know about the Irish," smiled Red as he pumped the keg with a purpose.

As the foam flowed to the top of his mug, Edwards began to smile. "Send that one out to work for you. I've seen Pub bar-flies who gave less head."

"This keg is tapped," laughed Red. "Get your own damn beer you pot-smoking hippies."

I eyed Red's stunning attire for the evening. Combat boots neatly polished with a shine that reflected all the dim light in the dart room. "Now wait a damn second," I laughed. "Are you putting in on this?" Red feigned fumbling through his pockets for cash. "I didn't think so. Just smoke on your Kool and we'll all be cool. Don't make me loose that monster in the shower on your ass."

At that moment Benny appeared through the beaded curtains right on cue and looked at Red. "If you believe one word this little bastard is saying I ought to string your ass up by the pony tail for shits and giggles."

Would we fall into some strange testosterone and beer frenzy just minutes before the girls arrived? Then the voice of reason came over the speakers and calmed the tenseness that flared to high levels in the soft-glow of back lighting. Phish swam about our forms and the FEAR and DREAD slowly washed away as _Fee_ echoed around the keg and through the tubes.

"Alright, now that we've all caught our breath. The girls are going to arrive shortly and I owe Benny a little something. A pretty face," I laughed questioningly?

"Breathe in and out, kid, while Red mans the door. I'll mix some strong refreshment and get this parted started right," smiled Edwards with his arms spread wide. "Welcome to my world."


	5. Til You Puke

"'**Til you puke?"**

Edwards and I had locked ourselves inside his heavily barricaded bedroom. It was time to put on our pretty faces and doing lines was neither socially acceptable or a widely broadcast affair. Everyone at the party, down to the dumbest of blonde sorority girls knew what two men barricaded in a room meant in this town. It was not the thrill of gay porn or anything of that wild nature. The Columbian Dancing Dust was in full gear.

Between massive inhales I could hear the madness outside the thin pressed wood door. The party was a success, however, we were not quite in social butterfly mode. "A few more of these," motioned Edwards to the two-inch high pile of powder between us on his bedspread, "and we can get out of here."

"I hear you, kid," I smiled. "If I could only find my nose, I'd be ready."

A few moments later the knocking at the door brought us out of our ritual. It was heavy pounding like that of a bird thudding repeatedly against a windowpane. Benny was taking his chemical cocktail a bit too far. He was beyond social, he found himself locked in some drug frenzy demanding that we, "Open the God-damned door."

Edwards slid the mirror into the top nightstand drawer and I reached for the knob on the door. As I saw him look my way, we both made to exit the room only to find the frame blocked by the towering form of Benny. "What are you blocking the door for, Benny," I asked innocently?

"We're going to Pub," smiled Edwards. "Are you coming?"

"Huh," mouthed Benny. "But there's a party."

"Minor technicalities," I said. "Answer the question."

"No, I'm not feeling like Pub material," sighed Benny as he moved away from the door far enough for Edwards and I to enter the dart room.

"That's too bad, Benny. Harley and I are sure going to miss you there." With that, Edwards took his leave of the situation and walked over to say his goodbyes while I consoled Benny.

"You're in charge from here on out, big fella. Don't let them steal the beer," I said with a pat on Benny's shoulder. "I have all my faith and trust in you."

"Thanks, Harley," Benny smiled and walked lightly over to the keg to pump himself another glass of froth. I watched to see that Edwards was explaining our plans and Irish Red was gathering his leather jacket from under the ass of a half-coherent Asian girl. She had to be Asian or Red would've put his fist through her the moment she even approached that jacket mumbling about the Reich.

I made my way down the hallway nodding here and there to the women lounging about in the dining area and kitchen. Grabbed my coat and made my way out into the brilliant chill of the night air. Edwards and Red blasted past me towards the 300 and forced me to ride the blazing eight blocks wedged tightly in the back. We flew up the thin roads so quickly that the flier plastered under the windshield barely fluttered.

"Everyone out," shouted Red as he dropped the seat forward. "The center of the American dream and the Uber nightmare. Re-pub."


	6. RePublicanizing

"Re-Publicanizing" 

The smell of Milwaukee's Best and cigarette smoke coupled with the laughter of Greeks . . . . .. That was the Publican. In this cavern of drunken splendors and loudly loose women, Red, Edwards and I were demigods. A two-dollar cover charge, handed briskly to the skeletal remains of what used to be a man guarding the door against under-age drinkers, were all the dues to be paid in advance. The rest of those dues were paid whenever the remnants of the last chemicals departed your system three days later.

The Publican always gave us a false sense. It was two floors but only one really mattered. However, no one but the help entered on the lower level that really mattered. After shoving two dollars at the skeleton and producing some sort of picture ID, we entered the top floor. The top floor was more of a maze than a bar. It was the mixture of pool tables, college kids, and aging locals that fueled an already chemically addled body to hunt the descending stairs. The mood of the Publican's upstairs was always the same. No matter how boisterous and rocking the lower level became, no matter how many college kids over-powered the pool tables and the bar, the upper level always smelt of town. The town smell that drives a person toward drinking in order to forget the concept that, bubba, you're in amongst the mountain folks with a limited tolerance and an abundance of ignorance.

That upstairs was the first gambit ran that evening. Always ran in utter silence against the brightness. Not a typical brightness of a room but more like the brightness that burns down on you from the eyes of God when you've taken that forbidden cookie from the jar after school. It was a furious gambit of avoiding conversation with acquaintances that would get your party stalled out upstairs. Being stalled out upstairs was quite similar to wandering around outside the Nine Hells. However, we were, as usual, on a quick mission to the basement. Past the pool tables, navigating around the bar, and descending the extraordinarily wide stair case downward. The red wallpaper, spinning disco ball, and socially acceptable darkness perked a smile to each of our faces. Knowing that, in a few seconds, after we pulled out our bar stools, we would, in unison, call the name of "Linda."

"Good evening boys," smiled Linda. "What can I get ya?"

Edwards smiled and said, "Your phone number."

"Ah, you're sweet," smiled Linda. "Beam tonight, honey?"

"No," said Edwards with a sober look on his face. "Linda, I quit drinking."

"Good for you honey. What can I get ya?"

"Linda," smiled Edwards again. "I'll have a Pepsi . . . and two shots of Jim Beam."

"The same," I replied.

"You boys almost had me," laughed Linda as she turned to the sacred bottle of Mr. Beam. "What about you, Red?"

With a clink of metal against laminated wood, Red laid down a pile of change. "Draft, Linda."

Edwards turned to look at Red. I turned to look at Red. Hadn't we done this before? "What," cried Red from over Edwards, "you pussies want some shots?"

"Well, yeah," I replied. "We sort of ordered them when we sat down. Why? What did you have in mind?" Like I didn't already know the answer that was to shoot from his mouth like a slug at my brain.

"Why, Screaming Nazis, of course. Linda," he shouted from his perch at the bar. "Forget about the Beam and bring us some Screaming Nazis."

"Now, you boys don't get too wild tonight," laughed Linda as she placed the dime draft in front of Red. "Remember what happened with the Flaming Assholes."

I vaguely remembered that night. Was it my idea? A night dedicated to drinking what we deemed girl drinks in order to get plastered that strangely back-fired. I can still see the blue flame licking of my fingers as I separated the eight shots laid on the wooden bar surface and the shout of another bartender. We were banned from the stuff. The great Flaming Asshole experiment was indeed a success. Or was it a failure? Either way they were off our radar.

"You have my word, lovely," chimed in Edwards. "Nothing like that will happen tonight. I've got a close eye on these two maniacs"

Linda filled three short glasses with Jagermeister and Rumpleminz right in front of our eyes and changed our drink orders from Pepsi to Michelob at the blink of an eye. She was methodical and mechanical but with the warmth of a grandmother looking out for her children's children. We raised our glasses simultaneously once the pouring ritual ended and gazed at each other through the dim light from the overhead fluorescents tucked neatly over and behind the bar rim.

"To Linda," we cheered in unison as the short glasses were lifted even higher. The three additional bar patrons glanced our way at the spectacle of exuberance.

Red, noting we had their full attention, added, "Ein seig, ein Reich, ein Furher."

I easily mouthed, "Ja voy." Slamming the contents back against my tonsils and then bludgeoning the bar top with the empty glass. The sound of we three banging the laminated wood echoed around the empty bar bringing more than haphazard glances. "I'm going to the head. Give me that pipe," I said lowly to Edwards who slid the bronze pipe from his pocket and into my BDU pocket. "Keep an eye on Red."

I got up slowly and placed my right hand into the pocket with the pipe to cradle it as I walked. My left-hand reached instinctively for the bottle of Michelob. Never leave an unattended beer even with your friends close. All it takes is one rotten bastard with a menacing vibration to ruin your drug catalog for the evening. Being able to identify and intelligently reflect on your dosage is vital to any drug-crazed but responsible American college student.

The downstairs bathroom at the Re-Pub was truly a scene out of some bizarre and feverish nightmare. Depending on the time of the month, the trough that was nestled against the sidewall was sprayed with a variety of food products. At the first Thursday of the month, the scent of stale urine mixed with the colors of an undigested spaghetti from the local monthly dinner circuit at an affordable price. As the month rolled on, the catalog of food littering the trough became a cornucopia of surprises. The solitary stall adjacent to the trough is where I hid myself and locked the fumbling locking mechanism. Pulled the pipe from my BDU pocket and settled the Michelob on the toilet water tank for safety precautions. I lit a filter-less to mask the potent smell of the pungent herb in the bronze pipe. A few deeply inhaled puffs and the pipe cover was slammed shut to prevent any spillage or accidental burning. The warm pipe then slid easily back into my BDU pocket as I grabbed the burning cigarette and emptying Michelob for my return to the bar seat.

On my arrival, I found the bar thoroughly engulfed by drunken college girls and amply inebriated and testosterone filled boys on a quest for the next big thing. The entire surroundings of the dance floor were filled and the sound of dimes clattering interspersed with the conversations typical to drunken quarters assaulted my ears. Maneuvering through heavy sub-human traffic, I found the seat I had vacated still empty and another Michelob just being laid on the bar by Linda almost announcing my triumphant return.

"Took you long enough," screamed Red as I pulled the bar seat away from the edge. "We were about to send out the Air Calvary for your protection, of course."

"Bastards," I yelled back at the direction of Edwards and Red. "Who are all these fools and why are they so damn drunk?"

"The girls aren't here yet," shouted Edwards in denial of my question. "So, speed up the pace. We've got plenty of liquor to drink."

"Liquor," questioned Red? "Damn near killed her."

Screaming Nazis were followed by Hitler's Revenge and finally I saw through the reflection in the mirrored bar column before me the descent of the girls. Seven women who stumbled in unison down the extra-wide staircase looking directly at our backs through the crowd gathered to watch our alcoholic patriotism. I nudged Edwards next to me as we finished another round of Michelobs. How many was the score? Was I truly concerned? "Six o'clock, Edwards."

"It's more like eleven," he smiled knowing full well what I was speaking. At that time, we were rushed by all seven at once in a celebration of a hunt finally at an end. Seductive hugs and mild groping ensued as we mixed happy greetings with an order of drinks for the gathered crowd. Conversations disjointed and I can see we three being pulled from our comfortable positions around Linda to various corners of the bar like some cosmic wind that blew too strongly within the confines of four dark red walls.

The five girls seated around me at the circular table on the far fringes of the elevated seating area only included two from our original following. The other three were foreign to me in the sense that I'd seen them before but their collection into the menagerie was quite unwarranted. I could barely make out the form of Edwards across the way in the stepped down billiards area across the dance floor. He was fenced in by the iron barricade and surrounded by far more women that were both foreign and exotic. Red vanished. He was no longer part of my guided tracking or on any of my radar screens that were now flooded with the scents of perfumed, soft skin and rail-level vodka.

"Let's do one more round of shots and go to My Place," squealed the blonde girl of whom I was barely remembering as a friend of a friend of Amy's. "One more round of Lemon Drops for all of us?"

She was quite a testament to the entire pub scene; a young thing that could only enter a shady bar like the Re-Pub under use of a blatantly false I.D. I vaguely remember her name being a Kerri or Sheri or some other strictly vacuous name ending in an "i" sound. Kerri was equally as vacuous as her name in wanting to tempt me into buying another round of short glasses for her gathered entourage. She was truly their leader but I was calling the shots.

"How about we all do some Mind Erasers and then mosey back to the confines of Lower Console Road," I asked innocently enough to remove any group of young sheep away from their shepherd and into the lion's den. In unison the girls agreed as long as I also partake in the ritual. That condition, of course, was readily obvious. How could I ask these five drunken college girls busting from their tops and squeezed into their tight attire to imbibe a concoction so brutal without personally getting involved?


	7. Ugliness and the Ties that Bind

Ugliness and the Ties that Bind 

Benny was halfway in his room and legs draped across the hallway when we returned around 1 a.m. With a full mob of drunken college girls and taggers-along not far behind, this situation was inexcusable for the safe confines of the four-bedroom compound below ground level on Lower Console Road. I was the first through the door, deciding to walk the blocks of downhill travel with Irish Red rather than face the brutal driving of Edwards one more time. Edwards was a fine driver but didn't seem to notice the flier that was adhered to his window by the heavy rain on the first drive. How long would it remain in its position beneath the wiper blade?

Finding Benny reeking of low-grade schwag and Red Hook's ESB, I quickly attempted to drag his prone form from blocking the hall. It was of no use. The bastard had firmly wedged his humongous carcass in such a position that dragging him further inside the room was pointless. My only hope was to drag him fully into the hallway and down to the dart room. This endeavor, however, was not a job for me alone at the early hours of Friday with a group of adequately drunken and reasonably wild college girls only moments away. And what of Edwards and the party caravan that surely as this drunken slump of a body were sure to land hard on the apartment in mere moments. No time to panic or even plan. I grabbed Red with a menacing look in my eye and gritted through my teeth, "We must move this bastard."

Red heaved Benny up with his Kool still smoldering from between his lips. I grabbed the legs and we somehow managed to parade in a Stooge style manner through the beaded curtain and toss him into the chair. "Minor tragedy averted," I smiled while wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. "Shit, that could've been a real buzz kill for all those ladies."

"Nah, Harley," smiled Red. "We could've billed it as a Freak Show and sold for admission. That big fucker won't know what's what in the morning anyhow."

"It IS morning, Red."

"Indeed you're right," Red smiled. "Let's see how much beer remains." He started pumping out frothy mugs for us and we relaxed. I began to take stock of what the score was at the moment. Red and I were safe and awaiting about a dozen folks we had personally invited back to the apartment. Benny was out of commission for the moment slouched heavily in the white lounge chair. He was big and ominous but totally devoid of motion except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

Edwards was still out there amongst the wolves. I remember attempting to get him to leave the Re-Pub, however, he was locked in to some prehistoric courting ritual with Amy at the billiard tables. I had to tug at his Weezer cap just to get any sort of recognition of my existence. "I'll be fine," mouthed Edwards. "I've got my keys."

He was right, of course. This was one thing that was as certain as the hammer coming down. Edwards and keys were a formidable commando unit that no law official needs dare question or tangle. They were truly outside the law.

So that was the situation as Red and I finished our third draft and it was again his turn to pump some drafts and turn on some more socially acceptable music rather than loud volumes of Guns 'n Roses _Use Your Illusion I_. I settled in front of the stereo and switched the discs to something we could all agree on as Red walked over with my mug in hand. "I suppose we have to be fucking social in a few minute," he smiled.

"Bars are closed, mein freund," I laughed back while slipping Jewel's _Pieces of You_ into the tray. "Time to at least act like we care and maybe score in the process. Hell, that Asian girl was all wrapped up about talking my ear off about the beauty of your long red hair"

"No shit," he questioned. "Maybe there is a God after all?"

"If there is," I smiled, "it is obviously a slender Asian girl with thick lips, an athletic figure, and ample knockers."

"Har, you got it." Red walked back to the couch and plopped down to light another Kool and crush out the one smoldering in his hand. "It'd be a damn shame for something as pretty as me to go home alone."

"A sad testament to all that is wrong with the world," I said while moving past Benny's crumpled form and through the beaded curtain. I sat the Red Hook draft on the kitchen counter and fished around for four shot glasses in the cabinet. "Red, mas Tequila."

Barely a second later Red was by my side in the kitchen with an ashtray that he tossed into the center of the table. "We need limes," he grinned while pulling a hunting knife from his jacket. "I'll cut 'em up while you pour."

As we made our preparations the door to the apartment swung open, barely visible from our vantage point in the kitchen. The solidness of the door banging against the wall clattered the furniture and startled our souls. "Sorry," came a seductive apology from the entry adding, "I'll make it up to you."

Kerri was flanked by her four friends still bulging and popping at all the correct places along with the pale form of Edwards holding Amy up by his arm and about three assorted girls I vaguely remembered talking to around the Re-Pub. Barely visible in back of the whole scene was the Asian girl that hounded me all night about Red's gorgeous locks. "It is quite alright, ladies," I called from the kitchen once my breath returned to me long enough to wipe up the excess Tequila with a dishtowel. "Shots for anyone and everyone. Red, can you take over?" Red nodded. "Edwards, a word?" Edwards winked.

I helped Edwards walk Amy down the hallway to the dart room and past Benny's still slumped frame. "What are her plans," I asked?

"I think she plans to sleep it off tonight," Edwards smiled while pulling her into Benny's room. "I figure we let her take his bed since it's of no use to him."

"Great idea," I added. "What are your plans?"

"Well, I hadn't quite thought further than a dozen wildly drunken and liberally friendly young ladies left alone with the three of us," smiled Edwards under the rim of his Weezer cap. "And I need to get my look together better than old Benny before the night gets much further. Mas Tequila, por favor?"

"Yes, mein freund," I laughed. "It appears the odds are in our favor. Any requests?"

We walked out the door to Benny's room and Edwards said, "Only one. Play some Rentals for me at the right moment."

"Taken care of," I agreed. Some of that fine band is just what the party ordered. We walked in to find Red leading three of the girls in body shots and among them was the slender Asian girl. Things were looking up at the moment so Edwards and I grabbed some extra short glasses from the pantry cabinet and proceeded to live out the Tequila frenzy no matter what's inevitable end.

Slamming shots of Tequila is an art devoid of salt or citrus in normal situations, however, these were not typical or ordinary times. When women abound in large quantity, always change your typical level of intoxication rampage. Sure, normally and at bar situations slamming Tequila with no prequel or chaser is the hallmark of champions, however, be warned that women are not impressed by such things after the bars close and all the Greek fecal heads are passed out in their cots.

What do they want? Well, of this I am always sure. I may not be positive at anytime about what women want, however, I am quite certain of the things they abhor. I was counted in that number many times and in differing occasions.

The party flowed from the kitchen to the dart room and we all nestled into chairs, couches, sofas, and pillows strategically arrayed throughout the black lighting. I packed several exchanges of the faithful Cardio-Chamber and let it make its circuit around the room. The four separate filtering chambers made the girls feel apprehensive at first but they quickly became like ducks and water. Cooling water and aromatic buds colored in the ambience of the room. I was deeply engaged with a clever brunette who was majoring in accounting when I noticed that the room was strikingly quiet. The vast majority of the girls were absent of mental focus, devoid of rational thought, and evaporating on the soft surfaces. Red was nowhere to be seen and also the slender, athletic, and voluptuous Asian girl was gone. Edwards was talking to two seductively charming young ladies at the moment and I was there with the accountant who was volunteering admissions of how much she would like to "balance my books." I locked eyes with Edwards and nodded my cup in his direction. The thought was returned with a slow salute off the brim of his Weezer cap that one of the beautiful vixens was wearing directly to his right. At that moment I could barely hear over the speakers the sound of _Waiting_.


	8. Holy Shit, Amy

"**Holy Shit, Amy!"**

I awoke to loud shouts down the hall. What the fuck is this ape shit nonsense at noon? Haven't all the animals been fed and put back in their cages? What sort of maniac is now on the loose? I pulled on some khakis and my BDU top and wandered down through the kitchen when I realized the scene that was awaiting me. I failed to recall the problem with body placement last evening and how the dart room was devoid of Benny when we migrated that way after our shots of Tequila.

Hell, I wasn't on much more than cruise control at that point anyway and this was by no means anyone's fault. It was, however, going to be an enjoyable experience.

I passed through the beads to hear Edwards shouting, "Holy shit, Amy," and the laughter of several girls that were awakening from their sleeping spots around the dart room.

I looked at the scene and could find no words. Amy was slicked over by horror and FEAR. Benny was rubbing his temples in a vain attempt at recollection. So the only thoughts that quickly rammed into my mind were, "Anyone in the mood for some breakfast? The Princess? My treat."


	9. DIRT

DIRT 

There are some men who can live and die by one name alone. They are a dieing breed and a sturdy lot for the long haul. When Edwards and I returned from breakfast we were eye to eye with such a man. He stood every bit a defensive lineman but had the innocence and dryness of a cool mountain walk. That solitary figure we could no sooner escape than the taxman was Dirt.

He was in the dart room sipping on the remnants of the keg when we walked in with uncommonly jovial moods for a Friday morning soaked in liquor remnants and battered by a Princess breakfast. Edwards and I looked at the form lounging on the sofa and yelled in unison, "Dirt!" To our salutation Dirt continued drinking his draft and relaxing almost oblivious to our shouting until we heard him shift positions.

"Well, piss on you, then," he smiled while emptying the final quarter inch of amber liquid and then placing the vacant mug on the coffee table by the Cardio-Chamber. "I've been waiting on you boys for over an hour now. I said ten o'clock and it's almost noon."

I looked at Edwards and said, "Dirt, that's more than an hour. I think you need to get it together."

"Shit," fumbled Dirt with the last thought while staring at the scattered remains around the dart room. "You boys had yourselves quite the party last night?"

"It was alright," laughed Edwards. "You?"

"That's what I came down here for," added Dirt ominously. "Get in the Bronco and I'll tell you all about it on the way."

"On the way where," I asked as if I didn't have a clue already? It must be West Virginia. It was only West Virginia. And I like, like it, yes, I do. West Virginia is the home of every range of nude and illegal entertainment, the birthplace of the nitrous bars, and the final resting place of the Hippie movement. Oh, mountain momma, you can take me home along your country roads any night and put me to bed worn, weary, rode-hard, and wet.

"West Virginia, of course," smiled Dirt.


	10. My Heart Keeps Pounding

**My Heart Keeps Pounding**

"In a HEARTBEAT," we all three sang in unison to the fading sounds of Weezer playing from the out-dated tape deck that was some sort of hackneyed aftermarket installation. The speakers buzzed lowly with the distortion caused by the excess of moisture allowed to permeate their skins. We were not concerned. The sight of the I-79 split gave us hope and readiness for the wonders of High Street.

"Ditch the joint," puffed Dirt as we took the curve north towards 79. "Somebody either eat it or throw it out. We aren't saving it for later. We've got plenty."

Edwards threw the burnt remnants into his mouth and swished the last few swigs of a Michelob around to ease the burden. "Done and done," smiled Edwards. "Is it bar time?"

"The kind of place I'm gonna take you boys is one of the premier spots on the mountain. And it's always bar time for us. Drink up," laughed Dirt pulling a Coors Light can from out of the cooler wedged between the front bucket seats. I had this feeling that Dirt was getting us involved in strange weirdness that was beyond his fathoming. I trusted his decision whole-heartedly, he was a force to be reckoned with and while having Edwards and I along nothing too terrible could ever happen. No one would ever dream of bringing down the hammer on us in the mountain state. It was beyond reasoning and good sense.

We bounded through narrow streets, past firework stands, and down the one-way streets of Mountaineer country. Paramount on our list of things to do was take stock and compile our collective senses easily accomplished by taking a hard right into a motel parking lot.

"Get us a room," bellowed Edwards and Dirt in unison while gazing over their shoulders at me. I was not unaccustomed to this scenario. It happened countless nights and weird mornings. I was the courier of all special missions because Dirt was too paranoid to deal with the public in any legal transaction. Give him a drug deal and he was strictly professional but renting a room or buying Visine was a chore.

"Alright," I smiled. "Let's see some green for the room and then we're set."

"Why should I give you any money," questioned Dirt. "After all, this is my neck of the woods. Without my skills, you'd both be lost and alone."

"Good point," I shrugged. "Anyways, you got some cash for me or no?"

They handed crumpled bills over their shoulders and poured them into my lap. Too much, I thought, but ample for my evening and pains of wandering into this hole on Earth. Who was to say what lay behind the rotting wooden door of the lobby? Only my wits could save me on this one if at all.

I parted the weathered screen door and walked into the stifling smell of the manager's office. Behind a stack of papers about four inches high a fading woman dressed in a ragged blouse peered at me with a questioning look. "Need a room," she asked almost as if it were a bother from her routine of moving papers from the large stack and into a vertical filing system against the far wall.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied quickly. "Something away from the rest if that's available. And, I'll guess room service is out of the question." She smiled and laughed briskly. "So, how far to the bar district from here?"

"Just around the block, honey," she floated a broad smile my way while removing a lonely key from the far reaches of the rack. "Breakfast is included with the room."

"Oh," I muttered. "What does this breakfast consist of?"

"You get the morning paper and black coffee," she laughed hysterically.


	11. Back in the High Life

**Back in the High Life**

It was two-thirty in the afternoon and the bar was empty besides the pitcher and we three. This was an amazing spectacle for a college town like we had on our hands here in WVA. Things were looking abysmal.

We were licking our wounds and pouring Yuengling's Lager into the cuts while Edwards was racking another round at the billiards table. He turned toward our figures at the circular table and laughed, "Fairly uneventful there Dirty."

"Give it time. Don't you follow sports? Big game today," he burped while emptying the remaining half-inch of draft into his mug and smiling to the bar for another round.

"Dirt, the game isn't until Saturday and today is," it took me a few minutes to compute the numbers and carry the one, "Friday."

"Shit, that shows exactly what the fuck you know, greasy." He tipped the short waitress with a dollar and a pat on the ass. "Today is Saturday. What sort of wild bender have you boys been on without me?"

It made no sense to either Edwards or myself. I grabbed a pool cue and moved around to start my break of the table. Edwards looked at me from under the light of a few well placed beer marketing signs proudly expounding the wonders of mass produced and under concentrated American beer. Neither one of us understood the lethality of the missing day but Dirt was not one to argue with at this stage in the game. It was the fourth quarter and we were inside the Red Zone with seconds ticking by on the game clock. It was no time to call for special teams to save us from ourselves. We had only to put our faith in the beauty of our offensive precision.

"Alright," I pulled from the back of my mind the rough sketch of a plan. "So, if it is Saturday like Dirt says. That can only mean that we are in the center of the universe in about two hours time. And, we are ill prepared to handle such nonsense. Do you catch my meaning, Edwards?"

"Loud and clear." He eyed up the next shot against the sounds of The Boss preaching to the choir about those _Badlands_. "We need to put on our pretty faces, Harley. And I mean urgently need to put them on quickly."

Pitchers flowed and ample trips to the men's room powdered our noses and emotions as the time for the Great Exodus drew nearer. With a sudden force, while we were working on round three or four, the door to the Wedgie Stand piled open and a swarm of crazed and rabid Mountaineer fans crowded all available space. Young girls with football jerseys tied under their breasts and short skirts tantalizing were engulfed by drunken guys with their hats reversed in direction and swollen biceps. There was no escaping as the crowd pulled in closer to the billiards table.

Edwards and I made quick work of the newcomers by playing on the fear that we were both fully blasted on psychedelics. This, however, was not far from the truth for any of we three. We had magically lost a day and were in no mood to let that twenty-four hour period go without being avenged. A couple girls and their fellows pulled up chairs to our table to discuss the numbers from the game and we hid our buffoonery in a mix of slanted compliments and bought rounds. Oh, Lord, get us safely out of this mad house and all that entails and we'll gladly buy a lap dance for you too.


	12. You Can Call Me Kitty

**You Can Call Me Kitty**

We slipped back into the motel room briefly and innocently enough at almost six in the evening. There was a slow fading sound from outside and all around the town. Most people were heading home for dinner and a nice long nap but not we. We were taking another appraisal of the situation that was quickly developing around us.

Vibrations from the room were becoming bizarre and the weirdness was absorbing through our skin and deeply into our souls. With a loud ring, the phone on the dresser began to come into motion with an archaic sound. Dirt reached for it before we could process the fact that not a soul would possibly know we were here. Vibrations intensified as I glared at Edwards who was paying no attention to the scene and was busy flipping through his duffle bag for some toiletries. He walked right past Dirt's newly animated spirit talking intently to the voice on the over end. Edwards just walked by him without a glance or care towards the bath leaving me alone with Dirt's smiling face and the implications that were bound to arise.

"See you shortly," Dirt pronounced amicably as he dropped the receiver back into its hook. I looked at him for a few moments in dismay as he stroked his face in the mirror above the dresser. Something was brewing in his mind that seemed quite perverse and unnatural. It was the kind of thought that brings the hairs on your arms to attention but it was nothing that some Beam chilling in the tiny motel refrigerator wouldn't remedy.

After a few seconds of admiring his handiwork, Dirt turned back toward me and smiled from ear to ear. "I bet you want to know what that was about?"

I gazed at him while adjusting the blinds to see if anything was happening in the parking lot. "Well, I'll tell you anyway," he laughed. "Remember that waitress from the Wedgie shop? She's not just a waitress." I walked over to the sofa and dropped down to light up a Dunhill and pulled the glass ashtray across the end table towards my vantage and waited for the story to continue.

"Her name's Kitty. Anyway, she and a few of her friends from her other job are going to stop by and party with us. So," Dirt smiled again like a child grabbing a cookie straight from the oven, "clean yourself up, brother. We're in for a wild one."

I sat there smoking and ashing for a few minutes as Dirt wandered into the adjoining room. I wondered for a long moment about the implications of it all and what was really going on in the Mountain State. Had we really gone this far and no one was going to stop us? It seemed inevitable that the hammer had fallen and the Great Magnet was blocking it from ever striking the tops of our heads. It was a revitalizing feeling.

I crookedly smashed the Dunhill into the tray and walked to the adjoining room. I walked past Dirt who was packing up a small pipe while sitting on the bed and grabbed my bag. Brief moments later, I heard a knocking from the door to the room where we left Edwards showering. The sound of giggling, loud "Hellos" and Dirt's deep laughter wafted under the door and peeked my interest. I quickly donned a Hawaiian shirt and walked out into the mix.

Before my eyes were three gorgeous women barely covered with enough fabric to make a bandana for an infant. They immediately ran over to give me hugs and introduce themselves as they entered the room. From the background I could hear Dirt saying, "That's my good friend Harley."

Their sounds mixed together in a sweet and intoxicating way that immediately put me at ease. I made sure my drink was intact and offered to fix the ladies something to abate their thirst. I was pouring Sex on the Beach into three mugs we had procured earlier from the Wedgie shop when Edwards walked out of the bath in a towel to investigate.


	13. Sweet Home

**Sweet Home**

We were barreling west on interstate roads with dried out enjoyable looks crusted on all of our faces. The faint yet distinguishable outlines of smiles could hardly be avoided when gazing for a few seconds over these battle hardened visages. The Bronco made a glorious sound with every inch in descent from the Eastern Continental Divide that lead us to believe we were far out of the freedom and even closer to the madness.

_I want to be as big as a mountain. I want to fly as high as the sun. I want to know what the rent's like in Heaven. I want to go where the river flows. _


End file.
